


Fratres (for violin, strings, and percussion)

by shipwrecks



Series: About loving, and then letting go [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Study, Force Sex (Star Wars), M/M, anakin skywalker's canon fear of everyone dying, fear of death makes you horny, platonic bandaging as erotica, taking the pew pew movies too seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwrecks/pseuds/shipwrecks
Summary: The blood shines in lateral stripes of vermilion, save from where it pours forth claret from the wound, grim against a pallid arm. Anakin swallows dryly.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Series: About loving, and then letting go [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664965
Comments: 18
Kudos: 188





	Fratres (for violin, strings, and percussion)

**Author's Note:**

> saw [this gorgeous soul-crushing fanart of anakin and obi-wan as achilles and patroclus](https://cthene.tumblr.com/post/145782254902/anakin-and-obi-wan-in-the-style-of-achilles-and)...had a breakdown.. bon appetit
> 
> startin out the new decade in the garbage as usual! this is um...homeric-ish descriptions of blood and hands and was definitely NOT supposed to be this long!! im SURE this is Not How The Force Works but idwiw so they hook up in the force cause Gays Love Repression™ so sure, do it in the old magic thats the reason ur repressed in the first place
> 
> i can't tell you what to do but for Maximum Effect, play [arvo pärt's _fratres_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DtkF7Yj6txU) while reading

  


_Rage! O muse, sing this dark-omened rage of Achilles,  
that brought endless suffering upon his own Achaeans_

—HOMER, the iliad  
(tr. mine)

  


_Nothing forces us to know  
What we do not want to know  
Except pain_

—AESCHYLUS, agamemnon  
(tr. Ted Hughes)

  


  


Anakin drags Obi-Wan to the ship as it rises, barely step aboard— _bit of a change of pace for us, huh, Master_ —deflects one last blast back to where it came from with his lightsaber, Ahsoka yelling to get inside so they can close the door, they're about to leave atmo. It isn't that Obi-Wan _can't_ do it himself, more that at this moment, he _won't_ —Anakin had met darkened blue eyes, then saw the blood running down his arm—trying to wrestle free of the grip, uncharacteristically impulsive. 

( _Pain is a powerful teacher_ , he'd said to his padawan once—in a vain attempt to impart the dual lesson of learning from failure and impulse control, fruitless once again. A powerful motivator too, then, perhaps—as his padawan very much did not need to learn.) 

Inside the ship, Obi-Wan's eyes have paled, dark circles rimming them stark against the too-vivid artificial light. _How long has it been since he's—since any of us—have really slept?_ Skin wan, face ashen, still somehow thrumming—a combination of the moment's adrenaline and a lifetime of training himself to push beyond the limits of the body, to transcend the crude matter's weaknesses and needs. The blood shines in lateral stripes of vermilion, save from where it pours forth claret from the wound, grim against a pallid arm. Anakin swallows dryly. He's seen Obi-Wan with injuries before (has even caused some of them) but—they often cauterized, usually coming from a blaster—though smoke rising from evenly lacerated skin was surreal in its way. Beneath the blood, there's jagged ripped flesh, there's Obi-Wan torn open and spilling out—and there's no mistaking him for anything more than a man. 

"Master," Ahsoka says, too loudly, into the tension, wincing immediately—barely noticeable, certainly trying to hide it—but she plunges onward. "You're hurt. It...it looks bad." 

Anakin also thinks it looks bad, but he hopes his face isn't saying so quite as much. Obi-Wan's manner turns good-humored— _nonsense, just needs some bacta is all—don't think there's any on the ship but it'll hold out 'til we land—do probably need to wrap it though_ —and Anakin can tell its put on, practiced and perfected so long that he really _is_ good-humored, calm and affable no matter the crisis, most of the time. But not right now. 

Something vague strains through the Force, defining into a prickly twitchiness, a dull ache, a heavy weight. Pulls and needles at Anakin, and it feels as if it's pulsating straight from Obi-Wan's wound—wrenches his head to force himself to look at it. He looks away sharply, immediately. Their eyes meet—Obi-Wan's icy, narrowing in the smallest betrayal of how he truly feels—before Anakin can no longer sense anything, Obi-Wan shuttering himself and turning on a heel towards his quarters. 

"I should make sure he's alright," Anakin musters up flimsily to Ahsoka when he's disappeared into a corridor and taut, silent seconds have passed. She just nods, a look that both questions and knows crossing her face. As he follows Obi-Wan's path, it hits Anakin that she of course also felt something off with Obi-Wan, that while he feels particularly attuned to his master's subtleties, she too has spent time with him, can pitch herself into the Force to hear what he—or Anakin—doesn't say. 

  


  


Obi-Wan is sitting at a bench in his room, trying to both unfurl a bandage and keep a press on the wound so it will finally clot to little success—willing his mind to calm down, to eclipse the flash of anger that had begun to simmer and boil when his flesh had broken and pain had gripped him. To lose control of oneself, at the behest of emotions, in service of ire—that had not come over him since—well. Even then, he'd redrawn himself in composure, and he'd do so again now. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. 

When suddenly, the door slides open with a hiss and Anakin crosses the threshold. _Perhaps the war is getting to you after all—can't even sense your old padawan following you_. 

"It's because of…" he trails off, gesturing to the injured arm without so much as a glance, uncannily responding to what was only said in Obi-Wan's head—something Anakin did often, despite how it unnerved him. "You're not at full strength. Not going to pick up everything small in the Force." 

"You are never anything small in the Force," he retorts wryly, before grimacing when his arm twists. 

"Let me, Master," and Anakin takes up a seat next to him—plucking the dressing out of his grasp, unrolling it easily. 

"Anakin, you really do not need to call me _master_. Certainly not when we're in my quarters." 

Anakin flicks his eyes up to Obi-Wan's, smirk painting itself on his face. Obi-Wan hears what it sounds like. 

"That is not what I meant, and you know it." 

His shoulders shake lightly with mirth as he answers a taunting _uh-huh_. Though he continues, revising himself back to the solemnity he came in with, "You are a master, though. You are...my master." Each word is quieter than the last. 

"Please, Anakin. You are a knight. You have your own padawan. You're—we're…" Obi-Wan is not sure how to finish that thought—with words anyway—but he doesn't need to. Anakin knows. 

Anakin seems curled inward, unusually contemplative as he busies himself with the task he took over. His hand—the one ungloved, pulsing with life—covers Obi-Wan's still pressing against his arm and pulls it gingerly away. His gaze darts quickly to and from the wound, only the most cursory of inspections. He lays Obi-Wan's forearm on his thigh, Obi-Wan using his other arm to prop and angle it towards him, picks up the long bandage and sets to begin wrapping it around his upper arm, just above the elbow. 

Obi-Wan turns his head to watch his former padawan curiously. He's intensely focused—no new phenomenon, when Anakin dove into something, he fully submerged himself—but it's now a quiet, delicate thing. His hands—each striking in its own way; one, dark and severe, a mechanical marvel whirring beneath, the other, long and elegant even under scars from old scraps and calluses borne out of war—move cautiously, so unlike Obi-Wan ever remembers them doing. When he finally lays the dressing across the tear, Obi-Wan hisses at the pressure, to which Anakin immediately hitches a breath and drops the bandage—curses spilling out with something almost like his usual fervor. 

"It's okay, I just, was surprised. That's all. I'll be fine." 

_Go on_ , he doesn't say—but unspoken does not mean unheard. Anakin tries again, somehow even more careful—now making even more sure his hands do not touch the sensitive injury— as if they were what caused it, as if here, tentative with them, is where he ultimately sees how violent they often are. Their grip—light, deft—still reveal his strength. After he wraps the dressing enough times, has completely covered the wound, he exhales into the silence. Obi-Wan does as well, not realizing he too was holding his breath. He lays his thumb over a round of dressing so Anakin can continue it around the back of his arm and over again. 

"You can't look at it, Anakin. Why?" 

He feigns confusion, but the hold on the bandage tightens and Obi-Wan knows he understands. 

"I have been injured before. If memory serves, some of them have been at your hand," he tries, jokingly, which does not work as intended. Heat builds and then radiates off Anakin— _anger. shame. unease. fear._ all bubbling close to the surface, threatening to crystallize into something above it, concrete and very real. His breathing gets heavier and he glowers at Obi-Wan across from him. It is the first time since he came in here that Obi-Wan senses he's anything akin to an Anakin he recognizes—not the timid one that's been sitting across from him, deliberate, taking his time, yet pale in the Force because of it. But it is worrisome, too, that this, still—passionate and untempered—is how Obi-Wan can place him. 

"Calm down, Anakin. I did not mean anything by it. I was merely asking. You do not have to answer," though Obi-Wan knows just saying this usually goads him into defiantly doing so. 

"I'm sorry, Ma—Obi-Wan," he corrects himself, not quite a smile playing on just the edges of his mouth. An improvement though, Obi-Wan thinks—relaxing his own hold around his arm that had tensed alongside Anakin's. 

"I...I don't know. It's different than others. It feels—" and here he flinches slightly, Obi-Wan can feel the flutter of his fingers against his arm, "more...real." 

"I can assure you they've all been real." 

"I know! I know," he repeats, a bit more calmly, albeit still quite exasperated. "It's the blood, Master." 

Obi-Wan doesn't think now's the time to return to the _master_ point—instead intently searches Anakin's face with inquiry. It is—dark and fortified, still giving away fragility underneath. Anakin was never good at shrouding the truth of him—has never seen much use for it, has always been consumed then used as a conduit by the very things he's supposed to shun, been able to do the stuff of legend by their harnessing. 

(It is terrifying, electric, staggering even just to watch—him blinding like a blown-out supernova in its last moments, miraculously coming back from the edge every time. Something too big and frightening in his eyes until they soften, lopsided grin returns, cocky swing of his hips and raise of an eyebrow ask _impressed yet_ —and then he's Anakin again, no more than a man.) 

"I—haven't seen so much of it since." An abrupt stop. He won't finish this thought. But Obi-Wan knows. 

"Seeing it reminds me. That you're human. That you could die." 

"Of course I can die, Anakin," Obi-Wan responds, but very gently—does not want to agitate, simply remind. "I _will_ die. Death comes at the end of life. An end, yes, but also a new beginning." 

"I wish you couldn't. I don't want you to—I wish I could stop it from happening." 

The heat flares again—Obi-Wan feels it in the press of Anakin's fingers, feels it under his forearm where it lays on his thigh, feels it cloy all around him—growing, intensifying. Blood has seeped through the bandage, coloring it sanguine, and now Anakin resolutely stares with hardened eyes. _Despite all I have tried to teach him about the sacrifices that are the heart of being a Jedi he—he will never, I think, truly understand_. Obi-Wan sets his hand over Anakin's over the wound. Threads of the Force feel both frigid and feverish, weaving together strangely in their opposition. 

"All things pass, eventually—people, places, and times. This war will—hopefully sooner rather than later. I will—later rather than sooner, of course, is my wish, but that is not entirely up to me. You will too—in a blaze of heroic glory, no doubt, but that then is how you still can live on—in a way." 

He gives Anakin this, something of a compromise tucked alongside praise. The threads mute and entwine much more naturally—palliated balance. Anakin's breath slows in calm, and the hand between Obi-Wan's skin abates its almost-imperceptible tremors. His entire self no longer on tenterhooks, but familiar ground. It isn't the naive yet rash padawan he once trained, with an eager glimmer in his eyes—the war had changed them all, and Obi-Wan will probably never see that Anakin again. He'd—matured, in some ways, certainly surpassed Obi-Wan himself in skill and power—though there still was, perhaps always would be, a reckless intensity that even the Jedi Order couldn't ever truly extinguish. An off the cuff manner, an easy charming smile that both belied what burned inside him. 

It is that one he sees now—the sum of all his parts—the one he knows intimately, the one he's fought alongside, the one who—as an equal, as a friend—had become his brother. Looking back at him, Obi-Wan, with his own curiosity, with something else too, and with both his hands around Obi-Wan's arm lax but no less holding him. 

  


  


The Force pulses between them, a heat building that's different from before. Anakin feels it creep, warm, where they touch, as he looks at Obi-Wan. 

Thrown into a vision, Anakin suddenly sees— _forcefully pushing himself onto Obi-Wan—bending him back onto the bench, crowding between his open legs and kissing him hungrily—a dark gloved hand placed just above his head to hold himself up, sharply contrasting soft hair and light skin—his other hand, so human the way it grabs at his shirt neck, runs along his chest, the way it wants to find contact_. _hands skittering along firm bodies, slipping under layers of fabric to feel warm, supple skin—his fingers brushing down a flank to grasp at a flexed thigh, guide it to roll hips into his own—_

Obi-Wan stares, as they both know what they've seen, expression shifting into one of questioning. It was natural, for these kinds of urges to arise, he had tersely explained to Anakin once—when the fantasy of becoming a Jedi met the reality of being a teenager—but this was hardly just that, even if they'd both, with seemingly different levels of attraction to such a concept, accepted being master and apprentice would always carry a lingering taboo. Anakin's grip around Obi-Wan's arm tightens—who does not seem entirely comfortable, but does not pull away either. 

_letting himself be guided against the wall by Obi-Wan—throwing his head back and exposing his throat—feeling lips whisper along his pulse, sharp teeth catch and bite—feeling pleasure-pain fuse as a hand ghosts along him, hardening under the touch—trying to hush the whine that instinctively pours out of him, honey-slow, swallowed by Obi-Wan's mouth—nimble fingers curl into his hair and pull—pliant the way he so naturally unfolds for his master to take—something intriguing sparking in himself that wants to give—_

Their eyes both fly open. He—he has seen this before, dreamed this before—but had never considered it prophetic, had only thought of it as another _want_ to quell in order to be a better Jedi. Perhaps—perhaps that _is_ what this is—sharing with Obi-Wan something private, pooled low in him, oft-ignored. Sharing with him something he shouldn't. 

"A–Anakin," he says—ragged, without his typical self-possessed aplomb. Immediately, a regroup. "Anakin," much firmer, though still slightly harsh. 

"Master," is all he returns. His own voice has dipped lower. He closes his eyes again, throws them back into— _strong, roughened hands touch him with juxtaposed grace—hands that have held lethal weapons now treat him with the same care—Master, he can hear himself hoarsely whisper, Master—I will not break, you can—breath hitches—you can—blunt nails scratch down his chest, angry red trailing behind—clutch a hip hard, thumb pushing into his skin, holding him against the wall firm, steadfast—Obi-Wan in all things. feels himself grasp his arm, pulls him closer—forces a thigh between his own legs, grinds down onto it like he's starved—a wanton gasp pulled from him, desperate for more—_

"Anakin. _No_. We— _you_ cannot," but he's slipped. Anakin seizes his arm, drags him toward himself, pressing his thumb into the wound—feels Obi-Wan's pulse gathered there, liquid giving beneath his finger, proof of life. He looks him right in the eyes, does not let him blink. They are so close. The heat has escaped them, surrounds them—whole room sweltering. 

"You want to. I can feel it." 

Obi-Wan's eyes widen, then hood over in the first traces of arousal. He does not deny it. But he does say, "That doesn't mean—" 

"It _does_. Just once, Obi-Wan."

He says his name, allows it to crack on his tongue. He'll show this to him—this piece of him that's like a timebomb, that always feels like it's counting down until he braces himself enough to defuse it—maybe because it's true, maybe because it will get him what he wants.

" _Please_."

It's abrasive on his throat as it's ripped out of him. Obi-Wan swallows, understands. His resolve crumbles, and he gives in to Anakin.

_still rutting against his thigh, needy, wants more friction—tries to take Obi-Wan's wrist, to bring his hand against him, to get him to—but he can't—feels his arm fall back with a rush, an invisible hold on it, tight. realizes Obi-Wan has pushed it, is keeping him there—not with his hands, no, with—he yields to it, to him—and when he is still, when he is patient, he feels Obi-Wan take him in hand, feels calluses—senses every line like topography, like a map of where they've been—as he strokes._

A bead of sweat rolls down his face, gathers in the dip of his collarbone. Still holding Obi-Wan's arm tightly, sharing—and it is sharing, what flows between them is not only Anakin anymore. His breathing is heavy, and Obi-Wan's answers in kind. _This is forbidden._ A thrill runs down his spine that blooms into shame—Obi-Wan was the very image of what a Jedi was supposed to be, did not rush precipitously into action, did not break foundational rules, unless— _unless I provoke him into doing so._ But then—he feels hands, once light in their grip, hold his much more solid, nails scratch his skin the way they've only done in dreams. 

_he pants staccato while Obi-Wan continues—still detaining him against the wall with nothing but his mind, his other hand wrapping around the back of his neck to pull just his head forward, to messily kiss him—mouths sliding in perhaps only an approximation, skin too warm and damp. feels it building in the base of him, hot, overflowing—then it coils up like wire, electric—is pulled taut, snaps and he feels release._

_lets out a deep exhale. focus diffusing. catches Obi-Wan off guard—focus narrows again. grabs each of his arms and flips the two of them around—uses his height to his advantage and pins them above his head. leans down, mouthing his jaw, his neck—stopping here and there to bite and suck, hard—burst blood vessels, leave bruises. take skin, roll it between his teeth—mark him with clusters of dark stars—whole planetary systems that sweep across him, spiral out onto the pale expanse—a trail for any who see to lead him home, right here. back to him._

_murmurs low into his ear—Master, let me—I want to—Obi-Wan, despite how he feels beneath him, somehow collected enough to look at him as if daring him to do so, though he stifles a moan that still gives him away. releases his grip with a filthy smile to slide down to his knees, to take him into his mouth. tastes him, feels him jerk and twitch, tremble under him—Alive. holds his hips as they strain against splayed fingers, pulls against the ones that have wound themselves into his hair and tug—harder, he doesn't have to say—feels a rougher yank, then a push down. chokes, searches for air—a hazy, luminous galaxy floating behind his eyes._

_Anakin—groaned out into the silence, hand drops to the nape of his neck to brush against skin—to touch. runs it underneath his jaw, along his cheek—suddenly, startlingly intimate. each place fingers meet skin burns. he looks up at him, unraveling by his doing. a hunger possesses him. he wants to devour him, wants to rip himself open and make him crawl inside—maybe then, death couldn't touch him. mine. Mine. MineMineMine—he thinks wildly, thinks as he takes him deeper, pulls him to the edge, pulls him over it._

They're flung back abruptly, back into Obi-Wan's quarters—and Anakin swears he can still feel the ghost touch of fingers on his cheek, until it's too _physical_ to be anything but the truth. He hears the pulse of a wrist knocking out so close. Even just this, actually real, is too overwhelming. Senses drenched—pulled underwater and drowning. He slumps into Obi-Wan's arms, chest heaving and sweat-slick—can't stop how he clings to him. The faintest of marks—as if living under the skin—takes shape in his vision, dusting down Obi-Wan's throat. He isn't sure how it's here—maybe isn't, maybe a trick of the light showing him what he wants to see—but he pushes closer into it, commits it to memory. 

"Obi-Wan," shakily mumbles into his neck, "I—I won't lose you." 

Anakin knows he shouldn't say this—shouldn't have done _any_ of this. He has always had trouble with the underlying tenets of the Jedi Code, can't ever seem to internalize the wisdom of keeping emotions under control—doesn't _understand_ how he's supposed to simply accept that those he loves will be taken from him, why he's asked to deny the very things that make him human. 

Obi-Wan's hand comes to rest in his hair, then runs through strands—creates a slow rhythm for Anakin to latch onto, to sync his breaths with. The fear of it—of his master no longer being there, of his brother no longer beside him—still flickers, a flame that throws dark shadows on the walls of him. But as long as he can feel Obi-Wan—muscles and nerves and strong beating heart all held tight in his hands—he can keep him, keep him safe. 

  


  


This is the art of  
living with a ticking heart — a grenade you  
throw through windows to make a  
point that language  
has no room for.

This is how I destroyed you. And this, is how  
I kept you alive.

_from_ SHINJI MOON's "[Advice from Dionysus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v_TYzPQ_lhI)"


End file.
